Blood of a Rose
by Kuramastrass
Summary: Sequel to my oneshot "I Love the Flower Girl". Kurama decides to cope with the loss of his sister in... not the healthiest of ways. As he loses his sanity and comes closer to breaking, will a certain someone be able to save him? Rated M for self-harm.
1. The First Blood

**Disclaimer: I do not own Yu Yu Hakusho, etc., etc.**

**This is the sequel to **_**I Love the Flower Girl**_**, which is the sequel to **_**Until Death**_**. And before anyone asks, no, I have never cut myself. On purpose. I do it on accident a lot because I'm clumsy, though.**

**So no, I have no idea what I'm talking about, and yes, I **_**do**_** write shitty fanfiction. Feel free to flame me. I really don't care anymore. Really, I just wanted this off my computer but I didn't want it to go to waste.**

**Errm, that's it, I guess. Here's chapter one of "Blood of a Rose". If you like it, good for you. Review. And if you hate it and think it's shit, good for you. Check out the poll in my profile to a link to Project A.F.T.E.R. And review.**

He sat on the edge of his bed, slightly hunched over, playing with the knife in his hands. It wasn't really a true knife – it was more like something a boy scout would carry around, a pocketknife. But it was still sharp... and one would hope that a boy scout would not be using this tool for the same purpose that the redhead had in mind.

He was thinking, slipping the knife in and out of each hand and through his fingers, occasionally turning it over, absentmindedly.

Why? Why couldn't Spirit World give her back to him? Surely their grand, master plan did not include cutting the girl's life so short. After all he had done for them, why did they want him to suffer like this?

They could not have been planning on the death of their precious Detective, either. He was too indispensable, too vital to everything they wanted.

The world is not a stage, and the people are not mere players. In truth, life is the ultimate chess match, and every living thing a chess piece. Spirit World was but the chess master, thinking about where to move each piece, and deciding what could be sacrificed to save others. The Detective would be their queen, the piece that once gone signaled a loss for the player.

And as the redhead had found, he was a mere pawn on this majestic chessboard called life, something taken for granted because there were so many others who would do just as well. There was a virtually limitless supply of them.

But there was only one queen, and no piece could do more.

He abruptly stopped this train of thought, turning his total attention to the knife in his delicate, slender hands. As he contemplated taking his own life, a twisted, demonic grin formed on his lips. He thought of the effect this would have on his human mother; now she would be truly alone, with both of her children gone.

Surprisingly, he found he didn't care.

His gaze turned almost loving as he continued to look at the sharp blade sleeping innocently in his cupped hands. He had killed countless others without thinking, but this was something completely different. He simply lacked the strength required to kill himself.

There were other reasons, as well. There was his demon pride and vanity, and the human unwillingness to die. And he knew that in some deep, buried part of himself that he _did_ still care for his human mother.

He took the knife in one hand and pressed the metal down against his flesh. He hesitated, then with one smooth, fluid motion drew the knife against his skin. The faint pink trail it left slowly turned to a deep, thick red, and streams of faint red trailed down his arm, almost like raindrops.

He expected himself to be repulsed by the sight of blood – his _own_ blood – that he himself had shed. Frighteningly, he found that he enjoyed it in a sickening way.

But a friend approached silently in the darkness, unnoticed, until he landed on the windowsill.

His head jerked upward. "Hiei," the redhead said in surprise, clamping his other hand over his wrist, and as he did so, the knife fell softly through his lap to the bed between his legs.

The sudden movement brought the fire-koorime's eyes to the wrist.

"What the fuck are you doing?" he screamed, in an unnatural display of the fact that he cared. He had seen the blood.

"I'm cutting myself, Hiei," he replied now in his cool, calm, even tone. "It's what people who are depressed do."

Hiei merely narrowed his eyes. He wasn't sure whether he was serious or being sarcastic.

Kurama made a sound between a laugh and a cough. "Believe me, Hiei, I _am_ depressed. I am not the _only_ one who knows how to hide their emotions."

He continued to glare, though now a soft "hn" escaped his lips.

"Hmn, maybe I should kill Mukuro," the redhead continued, picking up the fallen knife and turning it over in his hand. "_Then_ you would understand how I feel."

Hiei narrowed his eyes even more into a death glare. That was simply over the line.

The redhead completely ignored this new silence and was unaware of the glare of death. Glancing at the wrist of the hand holding the knife, he saw that he was no longer bleeding, though it had left a scar. He swore internally. Sometimes being a naturally quick healer was a nuisance.

He pressed the blade to his other wrist, to make another cut. But Hiei took advantage of his unnatural speed and took the weapon away. As he returned to his place on the windowsill he threw it up with a flick of his wrist and then caught it, the grin of a victorious thief on his face.

"You _know_ I will find something else to hurt myself with," Kurama commented dryly.

He could tell by his tone of voice, his expression, his body language. Something was bothering him. And he knew what it was, of course. But there _had_ to be more to it than just that.

Hiei did not scare easily, but the memories of _that night_ sent chills up his spine.

"_You've lost your mind."_

"_No," the redhead responded after a moment. "I've lost the only thing I've ever cared about." And then he lifted his head, and stared past him, past the forest… to the night sky, beyond the stars._

It had been the look in his eyes. Anyone could tell he was unstable; there was insanity and desperation in those green eyes where before there had been nothing.

He was both sane and insane. Was there - _is_ there - any way to deal with such a person?

But having nothing to say and no idea how to help him, Hiei left.

Kurama smiled as his friend left with a soft, fluttering sound, and he turned to grab the darkness Hiei had once occupied. He had left the knife.

Once it was back in his hand, he swiftly cut the other wrist, and before falling asleep he watched his self-inflicted wound bleed until it stopped.

- Kuramastrass -


	2. Roses of Glass

**Well hello there. I just thought I should mention that a lot of the shit I churned out in this chapter was inspired by the YYH fic. 'A Glass Rose' or something like that, which no doubt is on my favorites list somewhere. I never actually read it, though. I just liked the title.**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing.**

**And, well, here we go. Chapter two. Yay.**

He knew he should not be hurting himself, not intentionally. He realized that there must be – and _was_ – something very wrong with him. It wasn't something _she_ would have wanted, and he knew that, but he couldn't stop himself. It was like a drug; he had tried it once and now he was addicted.

He was _already_ in pain. What harm was there in causing himself _more_ pain?

But the cutting left scars that would never heal. The physical scars left from his self-inflicted wounds were symbolic of the emotional scar that would never fade, and the heart that would never forget. He would always remember how it felt to hold her, how small and frail she was, the way she smiled. The sound of her laughter rang in his ears wherever he went.

He would always be haunted by the sight of her, barely breathing, on life-support. He could still feel her blood on his hand as he reached out to touch her face. The memory of her last breath plagued his slumber every night, as did the image of her lifeless body laid out in her simple coffin…

He sat up in bed now that it was no longer dark outside, trying to shake off the feeling of pain and loneliness that would never leave him. He was so alone without her at his side, so empty. Each passing day it grew harder to find the strength to get out of bed in the morning. He had more and more difficulty deciding to come to bed each night, and it was nearly impossible for him to fall sleep.

Because then his nightmares would begin.

When it came to school, he did nothing. His body was there, but his mind was not. Only one person, Kaitou, ever approached him to attempt making conversation with him, and no one even _dared_ to _think_ of occupying the seat beside him, a seat forever vacant.

His mother knew nothing of what he was going through; to her it seemed that he was simply mourning. It was normal.

He glanced over at his dresser, on top of which sat a single pink rose in a vase. It was his miracle, the only thing he could look at and painlessly remember her. It was her favorite flower, the rose.

That same flower was his weapon, and it was for a reason. The rose was a symbol of what he was.

His hair blood red like petals and his eyes green like the stem and leaves, he was beautiful. But at the same time he could also be deadly.

Roses grow thorns to protect themselves. At first he had only himself to protect, but when he had learned to care for something other than himself, he would readily draw his roses to defend _her_.

But there are some places along the stem where thorns cannot grow, where the plant is vulnerable. He had his weaknesses as well. Her.

Kari.

He had chosen the rose because he was but a rose himself, though he was no ordinary rose; he was a rose made of glass.

A rose of glass seems perfect to all who see it, none of them realizing how fragile it truly is. Yet, upon further, closer inspection, one will find that a glass rose is clear; it can be seen through. It is _there_… but at the same time it is _not_ there. It does not exist.

A rose of glass is a lie, just like his life.

Roses made of glass are rare; they are here but at the same time are not here, existing only in a world of imagination. In a world devoid of imagination, there are no glass roses. They simply cannot exist in such worlds, and when they do, they exist only as a lie.

And in a world without Kari, he was nothing but nothing, nothing but a rose of glass.

- Kuramastrass -


End file.
